


Restraint

by lockedin221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, BDSM, Biting, Body Worship, Bondage, Bottom John, Consensual, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Frottage, Gags, Handcuffs, Light BDSM, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Multi, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Sherlock, Restraints, Rimming, Sensory Deprivation, Threesome, Threesome - M/M/M, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-25
Updated: 2013-10-25
Packaged: 2017-12-30 10:36:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1017580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lockedin221b/pseuds/lockedin221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has never been keen on celebrating birthdays, especially his own. John and Greg endeavour to change his outlook on the genius' special day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Restraint

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KrisKenshin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KrisKenshin/gifts).



> For the wonderful [KrisKenshin](http://kriskenshin.tumblr.com/)'s birthday. You're fabulous, lady!
> 
>  *****EDIT***** Christ I completely forgot to thank [Oreo](http://oreti.tumblr.com/) for editing this for me.

When John texted Sherlock to leave Bart’s and come home for his birthday gifts, he was, to say the least, annoyed. He had told John time and time again that such tedious traditions like colourful wrapping paper and cake were not things he particularly cared for, and it would be a better birthday if he could avoid that nonsense altogether.

At least Molly had given him something reasonable for his birthday. The corpse he had been studying before John’s inconsiderate interruption was a singular specimen. The case involving the man’s death had been far from difficult to solve, even for the Met. But it wasn’t often Sherlock had the chance to examine a head severed from the neck by a bow saw. Especially when the act had been the cause of death and not performed posthumously.

But John texted the exact same message twice, so, none too happily, Sherlock retreated from the morgue and made his way home.

Thankfully, Mrs. Hudson was out. Sherlock had managed to avoid her the entire day so far. She would, no doubt, be bringing him cake. Although after years of living on Baker Street, she had least caught on to only bring him a small one. She refused to give up on the tradition altogether, though.

Another relief was the lack of metallic paper decor. In fact, the flat seemed quite as he had left it. No cake, no wrapped packages. Even John was absent from the lounge.

“John?” he called out.

“Back here,” John responded in kind from the bedroom.

Sherlock hung up his coat, intrigue growing. The absence of one of the chairs in the kitchen only encouraged his interest.

In the bedroom, he found John sitting cross-legged on the bed with a small, plainly wrapped box in his lap. Well, it could have been worse. He could have invited every idiot Sherlock associated with on a semi-regular basis. No doubt the Yarders would love the opportunity to taunt him.

“Come here,” John said, grinning. The grin was the first real tipoff.

As soon as Sherlock had cleared the threshold, the door shut behind him. He whirled, and that’s when he discovered the missing chair, situated under the window; and Greg, standing next to it with a smile to match John’s.

“Oh,” Sherlock said quietly as his skin prickled with anticipation.

“Here,” John said. He tossed Sherlock the small box.

He wanted very much to rip the paper off, but he forced himself to take his time. It was only half four. They had the entire evening before them.

The paper fell away at last, and Sherlock held a clear plastic case with a pair of leather cuffs inside. They were a rather simplistic design, with metal buttons rather than a buckle. It didn’t stop Sherlock from wetting his lips.

“And who gets to wear these?” he said, finding his voice had lost some of its usual smoothness.

John climbed off the bed and walked up to him. “The birthday boy, of course.” He took the box from Sherlock and opened it while Greg began unbuttoning Sherlock’s shirt from behind. Sherlock opened his mouth to contest John’s statement, but John pressed a finger to his parted lips. “It’s your birthday. Tonight, we’re taking care of you.”

After a pause, Sherlock opened his mouth wider to pull John’s finger in. He bit down gently and sucked. John allowed it for a moment before pulling his hand away to finish opening the box.

Meanwhile, Greg had finished with his shirt and was now easing it back off his shoulders. He hung it carefully on the back of the chair before putting his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders and easing him into the seat.

John had finished prying the cuffs out of their packaging and passed them to Greg. While Greg squatted down to gather Sherlock’s hands behind the chair, John straddled Sherlock’s lap. He cupped Sherlock’s face in his hand and pulled him into a luxurious kiss: slow, tender, and full of heat. Just before he pulled back, he gave a little rock against Sherlock’s lap.

Already Sherlock’s hands were twisting against the restraints, fingers feeling for the quickest way to free himself on their own accord. Greg grabbed his hands and Sherlock went still.

“Here’s the deal,” John said, running his fingers along Sherlock’s clavicle. At the same time, Greg began stroking the inside of his arm all the way down to his wrist and palm. “Greg and I are going to start round one. If you stay put through the show, we’ve got something special for round two.” John flashed a smirk, not at Sherlock, but past him to Greg. He dragged his gaze back to Sherlock. “It’s entirely up to you. The minute you want in, you get in. But I promise, if you come in on round one, you’ll really miss out on something wonderful. Alright?”

Sherlock swallowed and nodded, clenching his hands into fists. John and Greg knew he had a nearly endless supply of self-control and patience. Did they really think he couldn’t last?

But, as it was, they hadn’t finished prepping Sherlock. As John slid off his lap, a band of cloth obscured his vision. Greg’s tie.

“Oh, John?” It was the first thing he’d said the whole time, and the intonation of John’s name was enough to make Sherlock’s insides squirm.

“Yes, Greg?”

“We’ve forgotten the other gift.”

“Oh dear, so we have.”

The acting was horrendous. It didn’t stop Sherlock from wanting to see the sultry looks that were no doubt gracing their beautiful faces.

“We’ll have to open it for him,” John sighed.

There was no opening to be done of course. No ripping of paper, no plastic casing. It had probably been resting in Greg’s pocket the entire time.

“Open up, love,” John whispered, his voice incredibly close to Sherlock’s ear.

Sherlock opened his mouth, heartbeat jumping.

“Wider than thatm, I think.” John hooked two fingers on Sherlock’s bottom teeth and tugged.

Sherlock stretched his jaw as far as it would go.

“Much better. It’ll definitely fit now.” John released Sherlock’s mouth, and in the next moment he was pushing something inside. Something leather and round and hard. A wide band of leather attached to the end of the gag was held against his face, and Greg buckled it at the nape of his neck.

Sherlock inhaled deeply through his nose and strained his hearing to follow John and Greg’s movements.

He heard them move onto the bed, the rustling of clothes and sounds of nigh desperate snogging. Then the moaning began. Sherlock had seen them at it enough for memory to supply ample imagery, but there was still a desperation to see the actuality, the now. The possibilities were almost innumerable, and no one memory would stick for long. He kept still, though, despite the growing discomfort in his trousers.

The sounds subsided, and then they stopped altogether. He heard bare footsteps approach and pass him, and the blindfold was lifted from behind. Sherlock’s breath caught.

Kneeling on the bed facing him, leaning back on one hand to grant Sherlock the most salacious view, was John, one hand languidly pumping his own cock.

Sherlock nearly whimpered around the gag, but it was too early for that. He took another deep breath, though this one was significantly less steady than the last.

Greg joined John back on the bed, climbing in front of him and obscuring Sherlock’s view. Sherlock mentally threw half a dozen curses at his bare arse and made a note to rip into that same arse later.

Even without seeing, though, Sherlock could tell from the minimal motions in Greg’s arms, the slight rolling of hips, that he and John had their cocks pressed together, fisted in one or both of their hands.

Just as the thought coalesced in his mind, Greg rolled and twisted, profile to Sherlock, John now half-laying on top of them, pricks still squeezed together between—yes—one hand each.

John stilled his hand, and Greg followed his lead. John bit Greg’s lower lip and sucked, rolling his hips so their cocks rubbed together between their still hands. The noise Greg made was delicious.

Sherlock’s breathing was shallow and quick now, and a trail of saliva had leaked from the corner of his mouth. His swelling cock was beginning to ache from the pressure of his pants and trousers.

John climbed off Greg, their slick cocks coming apart. Sherlock hadn’t even noticed the lube before then, no doubt applied from an already open bottle while he was still blindfolded. They were trying to screw with his perception of events, the bastards.

But his annoyance on that point was temporary. John had bent over on the mattress, arse sticking out, his own hands spreading himself for Sherlock’s viewing pleasure.

And then that view vanished. Greg knelt on the floor between Sherlock and John and veritably buried his face between John’s buttocks. There wasn’t much of an actual sight to see, though Sherlock’s mind supplied some beautiful substitutes. However, the sounds John was making, the keening and moaning—

Sherlock let out a groan of his own around the gag, no longer able to hold it back. He sank into the chair, fingering the edge of the cuffs. It would be so easy, so simple and quick to flick them open, push Greg out of the way, and take over John’s backside. But John had promised, if he could only wait, something even better would be given to him. So he stilled his fingers and watched and listened.

When Greg finished no doubt fucking John with his tongue, they shifted positions once again. Now John’s side was almost completely to Sherlock, with a slight angle presenting a little more arse. Greg returned to the bed, digging up the lube from the crumpled sheets and dripping it straight down John’s crack.

Except he didn’t follow with his finger. Instead, he grabbed John’s hips and lowered them until arse and cock were level.

A flash of panicked anger rose up in Sherlock. Greg was allowed to touch John, to kiss and bite and lick, to finger him and eat him out, to suck his cock and feed John his own. Sherlock had even permitted intercrural sex once, though he had been reticent for a repeat since then. But the unspoken rule between the three of them was that only Sherlock was allowed to truly fuck John, cock buried in his arse. Greg’s prick wasn’t allowed near that beautifully tight space.

Sherlock nearly lost all self-control, trigger finger on the snap on one of the cuffs.

But Greg didn’t penetrate John. With a wry grin toward John’s back, though no doubt intended for Sherlock, Greg spread John’s buttocks and rested the shaft of his cock between them before letting go. He dug his fingers into John’s hips and began sliding his prick back and forth between John’s crack, John clearly adding to the friction by squeezing his arse around Greg.

“Sherlock.” John’s voice was incredibly steady, all things considered. Low, hoarse, and wanting, but steady.

Sherlock looked down and found John’s head turned toward him, and their eyes met at once.

“Nearly made it, love,” John told him and smiled. Then he closed his eyes and clenched his arse.

Sherlock actually whimpered. It was quiet, and he hoped to hell the other two hadn’t heard him, but he really did whimper.

Greg began rutting in earnest. John shifted his weight so he could fold one arm beneath him to take hold of his prick. They were both making the most wonderful noises. Sherlock could not have composed a better melody. He watched, wide-eyed and breathing fast, leaning forward in the chair against his restraints.

With a final thrust of his hips and a loud grunt, Greg came, decorating John’s back beautifully. He pulled his cock away and leaned over to bite John’s arse. It was the trick to bring John over. They all knew it. John could last the longest on the edge, but one well-placed bite made him cry out and shudder and come hard.

John and Greg collapsed in a heap on the bed. After a moment, Greg began nibbling at John’s neck and shoulders.

“Halftime,” John huffed.

Greg rolled off of John and onto his back.

John took another minute, whether to rest or prolong Sherlock’s current state, before rising and walking over. “You did so well,” he sighed happily. He was still covered in lube and Greg’s come. Sherlock wanted to lick it up. “We weren’t sure how you’d handle that last bit. It was Greg’s idea.”

Sherlock shot a glare toward Greg, who was still on his back, but he held a thumbs up.

John giggled. Sherlock loved that sound, truly and purely loved it. Adored it, even. “Well, let’s see what we managed to accomplish.”

He began with Sherlock’s belt, sliding it completely out before turning, not to Sherlock’s trousers, but his shoes. Sherlock had forgotten he was wearing shoes. John took his time, untying each one with precision, rolling off Sherlock’s socks slowly. Then he started in on the trousers. Sherlock lifted his hips helpfully when John was ready to pull them off.

“Look at this, Greg.”

Greg rolled off the bed and joined them. The two of them took a long, considering look at Sherlock’s engorged and still cotton-encased prick.

Finally, thank god finally, John hooked his fingers in the elastic band of Sherlock’s boxers and pulled them down. Sherlock’s cock emerged fully erect. He sighed around the gag.

There was a distant knock at their front door.

“That’ll be Mrs. Hudson,” John said lightly.

Sherlock shot him a scowl, which probably was fairly ineffective considering his current state.

“She’s just dropping off your cake. I’ll tell her you’re in the bath.” He kissed Sherlock’s forehead before fetching one of his dressing gowns and leaving the room. His back was still covered with Greg’s come, and now that come was smearing inside Sherlock’s dressing gown.

Sherlock was both irritated and aroused. Well, more aroused.

Greg stepped in front of Sherlock, effectively drawing his attention. He spread Sherlock’s knees and squatted between them. He wrapped his thumb and middle finger, which had been wiped of lube and come, loosely around Sherlock’s cock and began an infuriatingly slow up-and-down. “You know, that bit may have been my idea, but wait until you see what John’s got for you.” He pressed a kiss to the hot head of Sherlock’s cock, flicking his tongue against it briefly. Sherlock shuddered.

“Oi.” John had reappeared in the doorway, arms crossed lazily across his torso, a glass of water in one hand. “He’s not going to last if you keep that up.”

Greg released his light grip and stood, grinning at Sherlock. “Couldn’t help myself. You know how good that prick tastes.”

“Mm, fair enough.” John looked at Sherlock. “She made you banoffee pie, you son of a bitch. You know what I got for my last birthday? Carrot cake. And you get banoffee pie. No question about who’s her favourite.” He walked up to Sherlock and undid the strap of the gag with one hand. “No talking now. Don’t want to ruin things.” He pulled the gag from Sherlock’s mouth and immediately replaced it with the edge of the glass. He tipped it slowly, but a little still managed to dribble down Sherlock’s chin and neck. Sherlock wasn’t convinced it was entirely unintentional. “Alright?” Sherlock nodded, and the gag was returned to his mouth. John turned to Greg and handed him the glass. “I’m going to go prep. Don’t get him off, alright?”

“I’ll try, but my willpower isn’t nearly as good as his.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but either they didn’t see or they pointedly ignored him.

John left once again, and Sherlock heard the bathroom door shut soon after.

Greg set the glass of water on the nightstand and flopped onto the bed. “Groan if you want more,” he said before picking up his phone from beside the glass. In a minute, lights flickered across his face from the screen, joined with sounds of—

A match. He was watching a bloody football match. Sherlock was incredulous.

Greg glanced his way a moment later, grinned, and returned his attention to his mobile.

Meanwhile, Sherlock debated the win-lose of giving up and strangling Greg there and then.

And there were no sounds coming from the bathroom, none that Sherlock could hear anyway.

 

It had to have been close to an hour by the time Greg turned off his phone. He walked out of the room and could be heard knocking on the bathroom door just outside. “Ready?” John must have replied affirmatively because Greg came back and promptly blindfolded Sherlock again. Sherlock managed to kick out and hit Greg’s shin.

“Christ!” Greg shouted, but he started to laugh. “He’s a bit pissed off.”

“He’ll forget it soon,” John’s voice replied from somewhere near the door. He sounded out of breath. Then his footsteps—they had to be his, as Sherlock could still feel Greg’s hands on the blindfold behind his head—moved to the bed. The pacing of John’s feet was odd; he wasn’t walking quite straight.

There was some movement from the mattress, followed by Greg saying, “Need any help?”

“Just this last one.” Greg left Sherlock’s side for maybe half minute. And then John said, “Alright. Gag first.”

Greg removed the gag, and then stepped away from Sherlock once again. He was away longer this time, but it was still less than a minute before he returned to Sherlock’s side. “Christ, John. He’s still huge, even after an hour.”

Sherlock had retained much of his erection, despite the neglect and his annoyance toward Greg.

There was no answer from John. Sherlock felt Greg’s hand on his shaft, and then a hard rubber—no, silicone—ring was pushed down to his bollocks. “I think he forgot he can talk,” Greg chuckled.

It was half true. He was also waiting until he could see Greg before railing into him for being such a dick. As soon as Greg snapped the cuffs off, Sherlock leapt to his feet and tore off Greg’s tie, ready to turn on him. But he never had a chance. All thoughts of lecturing Greg fled his mind.

There, on the bed, laid on his back, was John. John with the gag that had been in Sherlock’s mouth a minute ago now in his own. John, with his wrists strapped to his thighs strapped to his ankles, legs bent up above his waist, arse presented to Sherlock. And that arse. When John had talked about preparation, this was clearly what he had meant. He had spent nearly the entire hour gradually stretching himself open, avoiding too much strain, keeping himself slick throughout—and now he was wide open, dripping with lubricant, for Sherlock.

“Happy Birthday,” Greg said from behind, and he gave him a little shove between his shoulders.

Sherlock knelt on the bed, studying every inch of John reverently. He had completely cleaned off any trace of Greg, aside from the bite marks and bruises. Except for those, he had freshly presented himself for Sherlock, and only Sherlock. Greg had taken up Sherlock’s seat in the chair. He wasn’t going to miss this, but he wasn’t going to get involved. That was fine with Sherlock.

As much as Sherlock wanted to drive into John, he also wanted to take time to appreciate him. So he pressed his lips to his knees and his thighs, his calves and ankles. He knelt between John’s legs and leaned over to press kiss after kiss against John. From his stomach to his chest to his neck, always with special attention to his neck. He added bites, sucks, licks—especially at John’s nipples. John shivered with each successive mark.

But even Sherlock’s self-control was limited. He moved to John’s cock, only just beginning to harden and grow.

“One hour,” Sherlock murmured against John’s pelvis. “Not bad for a man your age.” He cradled John’s prick in one hand and kissed the shaft. He moved lower, and he sucked one of John’s balls into his mouth. John’s muscles jumped and he moaned around the gag. Sherlock pulled away to glance over at Greg, who was wide-eyed and shallow-breathed.

They had expected Sherlock to go straight for the hard fuck. Well, he would get there, but not after enjoying his gift as fully as he could. He turned back to sucking at John’s balls, one at a time, completely neglecting the cock above as it slowly twitched and swelled. He ran his thumb down John’s perineum, pressing along the edge of his entrance without slipping inside. When he was satisfied with the progress of John’s erection, he stopped teasing. He licked once along the underside of the shaft, stopping just shy of the head. John whimpered.

Sherlock straightened up and moved his hips closer. He pushed in slowly, exerting more self-restraint in that moment than he had the entire time he’d been in the chair. He was going to make this last, as retribution as much as for enjoyment—on everyone’s part.

Once inside, as he leaned forward to brace his hands on either side of John’s head, the expression staring up at him equal parts begging and demanding, the entire ordeal was nearly upset by one oversight.

After well over an hour handcuffed as he had been, he didn’t have strength enough in his wrists to hold himself up and ram into John at the same time. He sat back, sliding out of John, and rubbed his wrists thoughtfully.

Greg started to say, “Should I-”

“Shut up.”

Greg went silent and watched. John was watching him as well. 

No, John was trying to catch his attention. He was trying to hitch his hips further up.

Sherlock smiled. That, he could do. He went back in, lifting John’s hips as he did. It was a momentary struggle to get into the right position, but once there it was perfect. Sherlock and John both released deep groans of satisfaction.

Sherlock was on his knees, but otherwise upright, with John’s hips angled up enough that Sherlock could simply drive into him from that position. And that’s exactly what Sherlock did.

He took hold of John’s thighs just above the bonds, pulled out to the tip, and pushed back in with such force that John slid back on the bed and ruined the position. Sherlock adjusted for the shift and repeated the series of actions again and again until they were at the headboard, John’s head and neck cushioned with pillows.

Then Sherlock let loose. His thrusts came in rapid succession, and he sacrificed little force for the speed. Gravity was to their advantage here. He hammered into John over and over, keeping his quick, even pace. Despite an hour of stretching his entrance, John had kept himself tight inside. The heat and squeeze was magnificent. John’s arse was magnificent. John was… John was everything.

His eyes watered and saliva had long since begun to escape at the corners of his mouth. He whimpered and moaned and cried around the gag. But through it all, through Sherlock pounding in again and again, he kept eye contact with Sherlock. He didn’t shut his eyes even when he came. And oh, when he came.

Sherlock didn’t even need to touch him, though he wished he had. All he did was say, each word paired with a thrust, “You are perfect, John.”

And John came with a muffled scream, inner walls clenching around Sherlock, every muscle in his body straining with the orgasm. Sherlock distantly registered Greg pulling himself off somewhere nearby, but he could assess that later.

As John went rigid around Sherlock, Sherlock went harder and faster. He wasn’t there, not yet. The ring kept his own climax at bay, and he was so very glad for it. He continued driving into John long after John’s muscles began to relax, long after he went limp in his restraints.

And still, he looked Sherlock in the eye. With blurred vision no doubt, but looking nonetheless. And his message was so crisp to Sherlock’s always watchful gaze: open me up. Lose yourself in me.

Sherlock did. The world had long since shrunk to John, and Sherlock’s cock inside him. Even the bed seemed only half there.

He began losing his pace, his rhythm growing erratic. He was so close. But there was something he wanted—needed—before he let himself come. Only he couldn’t reach without stopping, and he didn’t want to stop. He couldn’t stop.

He caught the rapid movement in John’s eye. With realisation, he pushed so quickly and forcefully into John with the next thrust that his bollocks smacked John’s arse. Still thrusting, he managed to release one of John’s wrists with a single hand.

John’s hand flew to the gag and nearly ripped the strap off to get it out. His mouth was red, his lips swollen and covered in saliva. Sherlock wanted to taste him. As soon as he was free of the gag, John gasped Sherlock’s name.

And that was it. Sherlock drove down into John one more time, and with a deep-throated cry came into John’s arse, pushing in as his entire body pulsed with orgasm.

He felt fingers in his sweat-drenched curls. John was using his one free hand, not to loosen his restraints, but to stroke Sherlock’s hair. So utterly perfect.

Sherlock barely managed to pull himself out of John before tumbling to the side and onto his back. He thought it was going to take days to fill his lungs with enough air again.

Greg came over to help John out of his restraints, but John stopped him. “Look at this, Sherlock.”

Sherlock forced himself to sit up and looked at what John was indicating with his free hand: his own arse, red and leaking Sherlock’s come. “I’ve never seen anything more beautiful,” Sherlock said, speech slurring. He kissed John’s nearest knee before laying back down.

John chuckled and finally let Greg help him out of the straps. As soon as John was freed, he rolled over and folded himself around Sherlock’s side.

Greg sat on the edge of the bed, running a slow, light touch up and down Sherlock’s nearest thigh. “So, banoffee pie?”

John let out a tired chuckle.

“Two hours,” Sherlock muttered. “Give me two hours, and I’m going to rip you a new one. And I’m not going to be as nice about it as I was with John.”

John laughed harder, burying his face into Sherlock’s shoulder.

Greg climbed onto the bed and dropped onto Sherlock’s other side, propping his head up with one hand. “That so?”

Sherlock paused before replying through a yawn, “Three hours.”

Greg laughed and kissed the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. “I’ll be ready.”

“Oh, no you won’t.” Sherlock closed his eyes. His smile was lazy, but no less wicked. “Well, I think I finally found a birthday tradition I can get behind.”


End file.
